Towards Ecstasy
by MapleleafCameo
Summary: An angel falls to earth. A man finds him. wingfic, johnlock, Rated M Chapter 6 You Who Gave Me Fire for junejuly15- Happy Birthday!
1. Better Than

**A/N: Inspired by the music of Sarah McLachlan**

**Thanks mattsloved1 for checking it out**

**Don't own**

**This will be a series of chapters in no particular order**

Better Than

"Really? Better than ice cream? It's better than that, is it?" A slight sarcastic edge to the response but filled with humour rather than scorn.

"Oh, yes! You know how ice cream slides in your mouth and cools your tongue, the flavour bursts and you kind of hold it there, while it melts and flows, trickling down your throat? Better than that." A chuckle, almost a giggle, dirty and low. A perfect eyebrow, arched at him. "You can shut it, thanks. I know how it sounds. It's better than anything else that I've tried. Better than chocolate." A hand dragged along a pale expanse of moonlight skin. Breath drawn in and a huff of laughter as the edge of a long black feather had swept along his bare flesh. A gasp. "That tickles."

Rich, sable laughter, joined in, entwined around the other's audible mirth and rang through the room. A smile, sly and knowing, broke out on the full mouth. "I'd say sorry but…"

"You're not, you never are. Git." Affection in the tone of his reply, "How about you? Your turn."

"Your love, John, wonderful, exquisite, brilliant John, is better than dust motes settling on a bookshelf after dancing through the air in the sunlight. It's better than galaxies colliding, absorbing one into another, creating new realities. It is better than flying through the clouds during a rainstorm, with lightning thundering loud in my veins. It is better than…"

"A triple murder in a locked room?" Navy eyes crinkled, and thin, mobile lips caressed and travelled across a long neck. He murmured into the skin. "You can't remember the names of the planets in the solar system, but comparing it to galaxies, huh?"

"John, I hold the names of a multitude of heavenly bodies in my head. I've seen the birth of a trillion planets. I can't recall them all at the same time. Besides, you, you are…"

"Yes?"

"The stars were where I was born, where I came into being, but you, you are my home now. I don't need to know the names of the planets."

Silence and wonder, in a long pause. "And I compared it to ice cream. God, Sherlock, I can't…" a hand through ink-dark curls, down his neck, across muscular shoulders and touched the silky skin were it melded into the downy feathers at the base of Sherlock's broad strong wings. A tremor flowed through the feathers and the wings trembled as short, clever hands ran through, sorted them, calmed them.

"Don't…Oh! That's…"

"Oh I'm sorry! Too much?"

"No, don't stop. Oh yes, John! Yes." His head lowered and leaned into John's shoulder. "You have no idea how erotic, how sensual that is. I, oh fuck, I can't…"

"Shh, here, let me…" His other hand snaked down and stroked the swollen velvet and silk skin, warm and heavy between the long legs, the tip wet. His thumb flicked and smoothed the head, playing with the slit. The wings, which had stilled momentarily, trembled again, feathers ruffled as the other hand continued to stroke them.

Hands braced on either side of John's head, Sherlock's head was still down, mouth nuzzling the golden skin underneath. He moved his hips slowly, carnally. John took both of them in hand and another shudder wracked the long, lean frame, hovered above him. Wings, confined in the small space of the bedroom, swept out and flapped, stirred the air, causing scattered papers to shift and move.

Spoken low, "Easy. I've got you."

"No John, I have you." Wings beat, once, and then tempered, curtaining the bed, and blocked their bodies from the unseen. The pace of the two increased, slick and sweat, skin slid together. Long arms wrapped around John's shorter torso, held him, clutched. Respiration escalated in time with the strokes. In a heartbeat the two joined in a dance older than the stars that were Sherlock's home. Crashing together and then falling, falling, slowly, the large coal black wings, dark and glossy, steadied them.

All was quiet in the room except for the breathing and the ripple of feathers. Hands, marvellous hands stroked quivering flesh, stilled the tremors. He was pulled down and languid kisses continued.

A lazy head lifted and intense eyes, celestial hued, swept the beloved face. John smiled, his own eyes warm and ocean blue, those hands of his came back up to the tops of the wings. "Why?" he asked.

"Why what?"

"Why me?"

"You are everything."


	2. The One to Fall

At the time it had seemed like basically a sound idea. The plausibility of success was high. After all, others had done it and survived.

Lying on the ground with his face half in a puddle, bits of dirt scoring his skin and a warm liquid trickling down from his forehead made that idea seemed foolish.

Foolish and painful.

Extremely painful.

He groaned and tried to leverage himself up off of the ground but he had lost most of his strength. He couldn't remember when he had felt so weak. Not in millennia.

Eyes closed, for an attempt to open them moments before had caused his vision to swim. Instead he continued to catalogue every bruise and scrap. Fortunately there did not seem to be anything broken. Even his wings felt to be intact, although the left felt wrenched.

An uncomfortable sensation crawled across his skin, one he'd never really felt before. Small bumps were breaking out all over the surface and he was shivering.

_Ah, cold. I am cold._

It was a different sensation from the cold of space, the cold of the life he'd left behind where the ennui was driving him mad.

A heavy sigh and a loss of consciousness, the weight of gravity, the world and sin pulled him, held him, tugged him to the ground. The bliss of oblivion didn't stay with him long.

There was a soft murmuring in his ear and warmth spread over his lower torso as something soft was spread over his lower back and legs. Hands were checking various places on his body, also warm, firm and expert. The voice, exuded calmness, patience, something about the voice, something familiar, comforting, was repeating similar phrases, over and over. He concentrated with some difficulty, trying to make sense of the words. The voice spoke English. He knew English but it seemed to have been knocked out of that part of his head.

"Can you hear me? Do you know your name?"

A mouth, sore and battered, creaked open and a muffled and garbled sound was produced.

"Shur…"

He licked his lips and tried again.

"Sh'loch…Sherlock."

"Can you tell me what happened?"

To speak of his journey was impossible, something a frail human mind would not understand, could not comprehend. To translate what was experienced within his senses into simple human terms, it would come out all muddled. How was one to explain the cacophony of light and the flavour of sound? The wonder and brilliance of travelling across the interval of space, through the rage of stars to land here, in this particular puddle, in this godless human city on a insignificant island. All because of a desire to not feel bored and because…

Because he was curious.

"I've called for an ambulance. They should be here soon."

Panic swam through the miasma of his pain and discomfort.

"No!"

"You were badly injured. Were you mugged?"

"No! No ambulance. Help me! Help me up!"

The voice took on an edge of command, that even the upper hierarchies might have stopped to listen to or at least take notice.

"Stay still. Try not to move. You are going to a hospital and you are getting checked out."

Lifting his head off the ground, he squinted to look to see who had been speaking. An unremarkable person knelt at his side. He must have been uncomfortable, sitting there on the cold damp ground, but it didn't seem to be bothering him. Sherlock, despite the pain, stretched his mind toward him.

He felt it. The inability to translate what he saw in this man's mind, the same way he was unable to translate the journey between the heavens. Hidden inside him, there were so many puzzles, so many contradictions, such brightness, such darkness. Anger and despair hovered on the surface, but the depth of sensitivity and joy of life were buried deep down, way down under the scars and hurt. This, this was what made his relinquishment so much sweeter.

"Who are you?" he muttered.

"My name is John. I'm a doctor and I'm here to help."

John

Such a simple name. Such a complex man.

Worth falling for.

oOo

John was fucking tired. So tired. The work was done for another day and he just wanted to get home, shove some food into his mouth and sleep for a week.

The night was darker than it should have been. It was London, for god sake's, and the lights from the streetlamps and shops should have illuminated everything around him, but there seemed to be a drain on the light. In the gloom of the night, he started to cross the street when a spectacular streak of lightening ignited the sky. It had multiple forks and crashed through the atmosphere in a fierce and glorious display.

He paused, waiting for the inevitable boom and reverberation from the trailing thunder, but it never came. Instead the ground shook, ever so faintly, as if from an impact tremor or the negligent shrug of a sleeping giant. His eyes still held the afterimage and he blinked rapidly trying to clear the glowing trail from his sight. Once he had decreased it sufficiently, he continued to make his way home. He hadn't gone far when he saw something lying on the pavement up ahead. A few more steps and he could make out a huddled shape upon the ground. A person. _Poor bugger, must have been mugged._ He palmed his phone, kept it at the ready to phone for an ambulance and cautiously knelt beside the fallen man.

The man was naked and he appeared to be shivering. A cursory check and a gentle touch for a pulse. Breath filled the lungs of the form beside him and the beat of the heart was strong and sure.

The jacket John was wearing was removed and draped over the still figure. As he moved the coat to cover him, there was an odd shift in the light in the space above the man's back. He squinted and rubbed his eyes. For a moment he thought he saw wings, great, black wings, but with the undulation of stars woven in the feathers. The jacket wouldn't go up further than the waist. He shrugged, believing he was more tired than he had originally thought.

He swiftly dialed 999. Speaking to the answering voice, he gave his credentials and requested an ambulance.

The attempt to awaken the man met with resistance at first. After a few minutes of groans and weird mumblings, his voice, although cracked and dry sounding, spoke in tones, which carried through the air and seemed to arrive in John's chest. Even in pain there was something magical about the way he spoke. But it was when the man, opened his eyes, that John began to believe that perhaps the wings weren't the imaginings of an exhausted mind, for like them the cosmos swirled in the depths of the crystal eyes and although it was dark on this street, he was able to see their colour clearly. Not sure what to make of this, he waited with the man, kept him talking, heard his name, Sherlock. When the ambulance came, he went with him to the hospital. He wondered when the stretcher was brought forward how wings could fit on it, but the paramedics were able to transfer him onto his back with no problems and he began to doubt once more.

Hours later, not even thinking about going home to a lonely bedsit, he waited in the darkened room while Sherlock slumbered peacefully. He reached out and carefully lifted the pale hand to check the pulse again. Long fingers hung limply and he carefully replaced it on the bed.

John looked at the face, at the ebony curls scattered on the pristine pillows, eyes roving under closed lids, dreaming of impossibilities, perhaps. In the light from the window, in the manmade gleam from the street, he could see the shadow of wings on the wall, stretched out impossibly, as if the bed was not solid and they reached down and swept along the floor, hidden and invisible, but there all the same. Looking carefully between the layers and molecules of space, not quite knowing how he did it, John could make out a singular dark feather, alone and adrift on the hospital floor. He bent down, picked it up. He stroked along the shaft and smooth the bent and jumbled quill. The touch of the feather, the weight of its reality crashed though him and he yielded to its veracity.

And with that touch, with that surrender, he knew that he had begun to fall.


	3. The Fury of Your Desire

**A/N: Having a crap weekend - one of those were I feel melancholy &amp; kinda like I'm not good at anything - so I thought I would cheer myself up:)**

**Thanks to mattsloved1 for looking this over &amp; helping me t cheer up some more:) Hope it cheers others up as well;)**

3\. The Fury of Your Desire

The feather drifted down from above, a large, shadowy snowflake. Sherlock was perched in the tree. He did that sometimes. John would look for him and he would not be on the pavement, walking beside him but on a lamppost or a monument, hidden from view from all but John. Bending down, he picked it up. It still felt warm. His finger ran along the shaft as he felt the pull of the barbs as they moved under the tip. He was mesmerized by the sensation and continued to move his hand back and forth.

He barely noticed the thud as Sherlock landed almost noiselessly, his wings steadied him. John stopped what he was doing only after a hand much larger covered his own. He looked up, a little startled, into eyes, more green than usual in the escaping afternoon light.

"What are you doing, John?" asked Sherlock, his voice molten and scorched, like he had flown through smoke and ash, the fury of the beginning of the universe. He probably had.

Feeling his skin prickle with heat of unnameable things, John cleared his throat and opened his mouth to answer. He closed it again almost as fast, certainly because Sherlock had stepped closer, his midnight wings expanding from his back, the black almost blue in places and yet even in the shadow of the tree they gleamed with miniature sparks, tiny stars trapped in the feathers. They covered them both, blocking curious eyes and in John's estimation of Sherlock's exquisiteness, covetous ones as well.

"You keep thinking about me." He said it like it was the simplest thing, like John could stop if he wanted to. "Every since you found me, you haven't stopped. You wonder what it would be like to kiss me. If I would be shy and hesitant or wanton and shameless." He reached up with his free hand and lightly touched John in the middle of his forehead. "It's always right there. I see it, you know." He moved his finger along John's brow, trailing it down his face to his jaw, which he then tipped up. John hadn't even noticed he had ducked his head to hide his blush at Sherlock's words. "There's a part of you that sees me as wondrous and pure, and a part that does not."

Then he smirked, more the devil in his face than the angel. Who would have ever thought an angel could grin like that, with lips like those, full of sin and unholy promise, as he stood there, looking like sex personified, the way he moved, the dying sun on those goddamn fucking wings. At this moment he had more in common with his brother, Lucifer, was one with him, Morningstar, most beautiful of angels. All the while these thoughts chased through his head, thoughts he knew Sherlock could read as green eyes, slowly, ever so slowly, raked up John's frame, making him vibrate.

The hand on his jaw curved round, Sherlock cupped the back of his neck and without asking he pulled John to him, fiercely, owned him, bent down and with that first kiss, unspoken, declared John to be his; the fire in this kiss, fire which forged the beginnings, sparked between the touch of their lips, starburst. John, who until Sherlock had dropped down from the sky, had been unloved and alienated, felt the tinder in his heart, dried and desiccated, as it waited, waited for someone, something to give it life, blaze with unquenchable heat, radiate with newfound vitality. He moaned into Sherlock's mouth, shared breath, a life giving inhalation, the rusty muscle finally stirring, jumpstarted again.

This kiss, which he had thought about, had imagined as he looked at the full mouth, returned to John his existence again. It morphed until the kiss became a pact, an implicit declaration that they belonged, had become a new entity.

A pause in the press of lips as Sherlock whispered into John's ear, "I'm not pure. Not any more. Not for a long time. We were pure at the dawn. It changed during the war, after." His fingers dug into John's arm with bruising touch. "Take me to your bed John. I want you to do all the things you conceive of in your thoughts."

John's voice was shakier than he'd have liked. "All?"

"All," his lips placed along the pulse point of John's neck. "Every single one. Ones pure and" if possible his voice deepened, darkened "adulterated. I want the fury of your desire to immolate us both and you passion to take me higher than I have ever flown."

As John staggered form the kiss, he took Sherlock's hand, kissed it and with a grin matched in wickedness, dragged him back to the flat.


	4. Darkness, I Feel Like Letting Go

**A/N: Another angelfic – at the end of the hiatus. A bit different from the show:P**

**Thanks mattsloved1 for interrupting your reading of Percy Jackson to read this through:D**

Darkness, I Feel Like Letting Go

The snow swirled down, large enough to see each flake in splendid individuality. The night air was brisk and each breath drawn in through John's nose, crinkled the lining. The cold wasn't just on the outside, wrapped around him. It had entered into his lungs, his chest and had encased itself around his heart. A shard of loss, sharp and deadly, had turned it into a frozen lump more thoroughly than any Ice Queen could have. Sorrow was a weight, frigid and dense, one he carried, one that could be seen in his posture and in his eyes if one dared to look.

In jarring contrast to the frozen pain and misery on the inside, the streets were decked with the warmth of fairy lights and garland; his eyes avoided those reminders of the season, reminders that a person was expected to be happy. He concentrated instead on the flakes as they drifted down. The lights were too cheerful, too bright. He preferred the dark, dark where he could hide or let go. The only exception being the hypnotic eddy of white, the flurry as cold and perfect as his mourning. A sort of calm descended, settled his mind, as the snow blanketed the city and his chaotic thoughts.

He stood on the pavement just outside 221 and shifted his feet, jiggled the bag of neatly wrapped presents for Mrs. Hudson. He hadn't been able to step inside since Sherlock had disappeared in front of him, taking the rebel angel Moriarty to be judged by whatever higher authority ruled the universe.

John looked at the ground, looked at the snow as it blew around the doorstep, gathered in the corners. It was pure and it glittered from the light of the streetlamps. It sparkled, clean and bright. He tried not to think of the glow from the lamp in their bedroom on Sherlock's wings. The light would glimmer and swirl in his wings, rotated like a million galaxies, the reverse of the snow, coal black, but shining the same way. He closed his eyes, drifted like the snow, drifted down into images of sight and sound and smell, images of the way Sherlock's wings trembled as he trembled, moved with each thrust, the brush and sound of them, the pant and gasp of John's name. Warmth spread through John, cinnamon and orange. Fingernails traced along Sherlock's spine, his wings thunder cracked as orgasms, sweet, and terrible crashed over them, wearing Heaven and Grace. Wings swept the floor, spread to the ceiling, as he rode John, head thrust back, long pale throat exposed. Harsh and tender like his mouth, like his kisses, words shouted to the night. Then he would look down at John beneath him, eyes more complex with colours layered, deeper than the clusters of stars on his wings.

Grim reality, icy loss and sorrow, brought him back, feet shuffled again on the doorstep as he geared up, found his courage to open the door. Before he reached for the knob, he glanced down the street where the snow fell thicker, a curtain drawn. He frowned. Someone or something was there, just beyond where he could see clearly, obscured by the pattern of snow, a black shape.

A small hope arose, fierce and brilliant in his heart, worked its way through his chest. His heart, which moments before would have shattered with one more blow, gave a lurch and a wild erratic thump.

The snow parted and Sherlock stood, close and real.

"Sherlock?" his voice rusty from disuse. John had lived the last two years in his head, not speaking to many.

"Hello, John," he breathed; heat rushed in and encircled John. Melted the ice in his chest. Sherlock moved quicker than thought as John's knees gave way and he held him close, holding his burden of grief and pain as if it were nothing, as if John's sorrow was easy to take upon himself and banish. It hadn't felt that way when john had been carrying it alone.

John placed his head upon Sherlock's chest and breathed in the heated spice and smell of him, the tangible cinnamon taste, the aura of comfort and bliss. Wings, glorious and safe, wrapped around John, sheltered him from the storm of winter, the storm of grief

"I have missed you, John Watson," was whispered in his ear.

John didn't notice the bag of presents fall from his hand, to lay on the cold cement pavement, as he lifted his head and raised his hand to grip the back of Sherlock's neck, brought that impossible angel face, demonic mouth to line up with his own. "You stupid git. Do you know what you have done to me?" He crushed Sherlock's mouth with his own, pillaged and owned it.

Snow fell as they stood there. Fell as John Watson and Sherlock returned to earth.


	5. In the Lonely Light of Morning

**A/N: This is for the lovely johnsarmylady for her birthday. Happy Birthday, my friend:D She gave me these three words **_**loneliness**_**, **_**insecurity**_** and **_**doubt**_**. I chose to write another piece for my winglock story because she also said she liked wings and angst and smut:D How could I refuse?**

**Inspired by the music of Sarah McLachlan**

**Thanks to mattsloved1 for check this over.**

**Don't own:(**

In the Lonely Light of Morning

John watches, afraid, afraid this isn't real and he'll awake, deserted once more. Doubt is terrible and raw and forces him to reach out and confirm the angel in his bed is warm and alive. With a trembling hand, barely touching, he brushes against the wing lying across him, enveloping him. It feels solid, tangible. Bolder now, more assured, he lets fingers run through the flight feathers, straightening, smoothing. Sherlock, mouth slack, a slight snore that will later be denied, moves slightly in his sleep, closer to John, a hand flings out and clasps his waist, owning, claiming. Watching the unearthly face move in sleep, praying he is real, John remembers other exchanges, in this bed, from before. Sherlock has said it is odd to sleep, to let go and follow the way into dreams and images, memories that play there, where emotions are freer, somehow. He finds it disconcerting, to simply let go and allow yourself to become unconscious. John says it's normal for humans, healthy even. People have gone mad from sleep deprivation.

In his memory, Sherlock laughs, rich and throaty. "I am already mad." He then whispers secrets and delights. Tells him exactly what he will do, how he will touch John here, like this and how John will moan, like this. He brushes lips over eager skin and his hands skim up John's side, ticklish, but there is no mirth, it is dark and urgent, demanding. "Sinful," Sherlock says, "what I will do to you. You will beg for forgiveness." Another midnight laugh full of promise and seduction.

John accepts the depravity of it, the supplication of it. He takes the communion of Sherlock's mouth and tongue into his, melds them together. He whispers back to Sherlock, "you are all I have ever wanted, you will be all I ever need."

He remembers all of this and more as he watches Sherlock sleep.

He thinks about how Sherlock's hand presses down on his hips, fingers flexing slightly, digging in, marking and bruising, holding him in place. Sherlock shifts his own hips in slow thrusts, not quite grinding, just the suggestion of it, a tease. "Don't move," he says, "or I will stop." A shit-eating grin lights up his face.

He torments and pushes long and shapely fingers, stretching and burning. It's unhurried, much more than John wants but exactly what he needs. A crook of a long finger and John cries out, "Sherlock, please."

"Please what?" There is no mercy in the dark-god crystal eyes looking down at him.

"Please, Sherlock. I want…" he breaks off in a tortured gasp, and Sherlock continues to mock him with his fingers. "Shhh, soon, soon."

Half desperate, half mad himself, John's surrender begins, drawn out and languid. His mouth captured again or relinquished, he's not sure which. Sherlock murmurs in his ear, but not in any language John recognizes, not meant for human voices. He thrums and pulses and sweats. Kisses trail down the side of his neck, the feel of the words that Sherlock speaks into his skin, indelible, hot and heavy.

John does moan, exactly like he had been told. One last touch and Sherlock enters completely, full hilt as they say. This is his first time, filling John, making him his and it isn't what either expects. John watches Sherlock's face, the expressions; the light from the street burnishes his skin, turning it from ivory to gold. It is sacred and holy.

He wants to close his eyes to savour and feel every movement, feel this invasion that is welcome, but he longs, badly, desperately to watch Sherlock. He sees his eyes sweep across John's face, down his body and looks at what he is doing to him, what they are doing together. His eyes come back to John's face and he groans as he comes, shaking and rough. John can finally close his eyes and he joins him.

Sherlock's head collapses on John's shoulder. Hard.

"Ow! Fuck, that hurt." It comes out half gasp, half laugh.

A slightly confused look, a swift apology and a lingering kiss on his scar. Carefully, gently, Sherlock pulls out but he looms over John, his wings flutter slightly as his heartbeat slows. He folds his arms so they are across John's chest and he looks at him. John lifts a shaky hand and runs it through Sherlock's curls and down his neck gently brushing the tops of the great wings. Sherlock shivers. His cock lying flaccid stirs once again.

"Really? John chuckles. "You are insatiable." Sherlock, his head to the side watching the dawn break, turns back and grins, angelic to demonic.

That was before. Before he was left behind, alone and forgotten.

Now John is sheltered with Sherlock in their bed. The great wings stretch out over John, hiding, guarding. He is in a bower of feathers, blanketed. He looks carefully at them, in the soft, lonely light; morning sun kisses the foot of the bed. The wings are soft, but stiff, irresistible. They aren't completely black. There are dark, intricate colours woven throughout, all edging on black, like the deepest part of the sky at night; navies and greens that were more bronze, browns that could be mistaken for black. The stars live there, twinkling and pulsing with each breath. John rolls and turns into Sherlock, inhaling as he does, scenting the thunder smell, the lightening smell, that clings to him, fresh and dangerous. God, how he missed him, missed this. He lifts his hand to touch and feel the feathers where the wings meet flesh, continuing to marvel that he is allowed.

Kissing the tip of Sherlock's nose and John watches the closed eyelids flutter. Sherlock's face scrunches up as he surfaces from wherever it is angels go to dream. The crystal blue, crystal green greets his gaze. A shift of light and a frown and John sees the insecurity that lies at the bottom of the pool of blue-green.

"What, love?"

"I wasn't sure if you'd forgive me."

John hesitates. He admits in his head he wasn't sure either, if it was possible. Instead of answering, he kisses Sherlock long and hard, tongue flicking in, head moving to adjust his position. With a sigh he leans back and looks at Sherlock. Warmth replaces the cold ache in his belly. He trails a hand across the pale flesh. He thinks about loss and loneliness. He thinks about not sleeping and worry, not eating and wondering if he would be able to get out of bed in the morning. The effort of existing without this divine grace that lies beside him.

He could speak to Sherlock of the loneliness, the doubt, the insecurity. He could tell him 'you were gone and there was a gaping hole in my chest. I was bleeding everywhere'. He doesn't. He's not sure Sherlock would understand, not sure it would make any difference. Instead he says. "Of course I forgive you."

But Sherlock is Sherlock and he pushes for more. John tries again.

"I…" he clears his throat, the words are rusty and stuck. "I had sunk so low, without you, I …can you understand? There was nowhere to turn and I felt I had no one. I was so alone before you came and so alone when you left. I don't want to ever feel that again." He pauses and looks at this person, this angel he loves, more than anything. "I have to forgive you, Sherlock, I need to forgive you, but not because of that, not just because of the loneliness and the fear. Not because of what I would be without you, but because that's what you do when you love someone."

"You love me?" How can an ageless, million-year-old entity look so young, be so insecure?

"Yeah, I do."

A rose glow races through Sherlock as he blushes. John touches the heated skin. Sherlock is becoming so much more than what he was. He isn't sure if that is a good thing or not.

"You shouldn't you know. Forgive me."

Clasping Sherlock's shoulder he gives him a shake. "You are an insufferable git, telling me what I should or shouldn't do. Accept it. You'd be stupid not to." He rubs at the worry lines. "Accept it and let's move on. I forgive you. I love you. I want you. For now and for always."

Sherlock nods and lies back in John's arms. Mercifully, John finally believes Sherlock is here and will stay. As he drifts he thinks he hears,

"I love you, John."

Amazement clenches his heart as he follows his own path into dreams.


	6. You Who Gave Me Fire

**A/N: Happy birthday to my dear friend junejuly15 on June 23rd! I asked her what she'd like and she said, "I'd like to have a dangerous moment, one of them hurt, both of them madly in love and finally, finally confessing their love. You can throw in a bit of Mycroft if you like. Three words? Okay, what about: serenity, arrogance and chocolate éclair.**

**I hope wing!lock is acceptable, my friend. I tried to write it differently but the angel wouldn't go away:D**

**As with the rest of this story, inspired by the music of Sarah McLauchlan. I do not own but I do like to play:)**

You Who Gave Me Fire

"Where is he, Doctor Watson?"

"No idea."

The sound of a fist hitting flesh seemed very loud in his head. He was pretty sure it wasn't as deafening outside of it, in the small room. Pain bloomed through his eye and cheek, warm and sharp and disrupted his internal dialogue.

"Come now, Doctor Watson. Surely you must know. You can't keep him. We know what he is. We know how to revere him."

"Sorry, can't help you. Seems to me you are a wee bit insane. There's no such thing as angels."

The second punch came right on top of the first. Definitely going to have a black eye then.

"Do not lie! We have seen! He is Other, one of the army of Heaven. Give him to us and we will let you go."

John sighed. This kidnapping lark was getting out of hand. Last thing he remembered, Sherlock was going to drag him back to the flat and the promise of something smouldering in the kaleidoscope eyes burned brightly in his memory. He seemed to remember Sherlock leaving suddenly. Family emergency, he had said. The details of what had happened right after were fuzzier. His head was spinning a bit or maybe it was the room and the mad ramblings of the pompous jacked up arsehole kept receding in and out like an old-fashioned, badly tuned wireless.

"No, I'm sorry. I can't tell you about this Sherlock person you keep blabbering about. You need a doctor, mate."

A slightly out of focus picture was held up to John. He tried peering at it with his good eye. Yep. There they were. Shite and fuck. John was standing slightly to the right of Sherlock. There was a definite glow surrounding the angel, one that couldn't be blamed on the setting sun or on Photoshop. And the air behind him was smudged. A hint of what John knew was glory and perfection, an echo of powerful wings.

"Oh, that angel. Yeah see, that's just makeup and costuming. He's an actor. Really gets into his part. Going to be on the telly."

Thud

"Where is he?"

"I don't bloody well know where he is. He didn't tell me. He does that, runs off and leaves. I am not his bloody mother."

And if that show off git didn't get here soon and get John out of this mess whatever was building between them would never come to fruition.

"Sounds like you think you have the right, Doctor. To have him, to touch him. Like you think he is your friend? He is beyond you. You are a pathetic creature that should be bowing down to worship him." The word friend was said with such insinuation, that there was more to it than simple friendship. John wished, deep down inside that that were true, that he had the right to claim Sherlock as his, but he didn't. He probably never would.

Smack.

John gave his head an experimental and gentle shake. So far nothing seemed broken up there but if this interrogation kept up, he was fairly certain he would end up with a concussion or busted nose. His head definitely hurt, as did various muscle groups.

"I am getting very tired, Doctor Watson. I am asking you a simple question and you seem to not understand."

It couldn't be helped. Trouble and pain would no doubt follow but he just could not stop himself.

He giggled.

This time the punch came to his side, a cruel jab to ribs already bruised from an earlier kick.

If the two thugs holding him up hadn't been, he would have collapsed.

Yeah. Ouch. Shite. Definitely cracked in the very least. Could be broken. He wasn't entirely sure. Hard to breathe.

"Not sure why you think this situation is humorous but it would behoove you to answer my questions."

Dammit he did it again. If this petty criminal did not stop sounding like a bad Bond villain, he was not going to get out of this alive.

A large meaty hand grasped his hair by the roots and pulled his head back. It felt like his scalp would come off. He could feel the blood from his nose trickle down the back of his throat and he choked.

"What is so funny, Doctor Watson?" 

"You are," he rasped. "You and your posturing. And the two-bit dialogue. You really ought to get a better writer, mate."

"You're arrogance will be your death. I'm tired of this. Kill him. We'll get the angel another way."

Another blow to the stomach. And another. The two Neanderthals holding him let him drop and he hit the cold floor. It actually felt rather nice on his swollen face. Or it would if his lungs would work properly. The feeling of relief of being able to lie down didn't last long as he'd like. He barely had time to register the foot in front of him as it lifted and stomped down on his hand.

This time he screamed. He didn't even feel the kicks that followed, one after another.

The room swirled faster and he decided he'd had enough. So much better to slip away and not be here anymore. The blackness waiting for him was friendly, blissfully silent and he eagerly embraced it. As he left his head, he wondered at the strange buzzing noise and the room seemed far too bright. A wave of heat washed over him and he wished whoever was shouting would stop. Then they did, but he was already beyond hearing anything.

oOo

In the soft, quiet of early morning, just before the light breaches the horizon, but after regrets have held court, Sherlock sat curled up as small as possible in a hospital chair. If it could even be called such a thing, torture devise was more like it. His wings were drawn in tight and still. Not a tremor or a whisper of movement in order to let John rest and so he could listen to the sound of John's breath go in and out.

Humans were so unbelievably fragile, their existence so brief. It was unacceptable that John's life had nearly been cut off.

Listening to his lungs fill was soothing. The organs responsible for pumping air, John's lungs, had almost shut down for good. Stopped. Ceased to work.

Sherlock lifted a hand to his lips and played with the lower one, worrying at it. He would never admit it but he was exhausted. His need for sleep would soon overcome him and he would shortly yield. Before the Fall, he'd never needed sleep, didn't understand it. As soon as he knew John would be all right, he'd let himself go.

"And how is he, brother dear?"

"Mycroft!" The name was spit out like a condemnation.

"You really must take better care of your pets."

"I would suggest you leave before I do something you will regret."

"Haven't you already? It is not your place to mete out punishment whenever you deem it necessary."

"No, it isn't. That's your job. Am I stepping on your toes?"

Mycroft simply sniffed.

"If you hadn't called and distracted me, John wouldn't have been kidnapped."

"You were on your way to engage in carnal relations with the man. I needed to prevent you…"

"Prevent me?"

"Before you gave into sentiment, brother mine, and completely cut yourself off forever."

"Go find some chocolate éclairs, Mycroft. Surely the sin of Gluttony will weigh you down as much as Lust will for me."

"What you did, for him, what was done in his name, that was far more than simple Lust, Sherlock. Be careful. There is no advantage in caring. Their lives are far too brief." He turned to go, vanish into the ether, but he paused and said quietly, "You will have to pay, you know. Yes, what they did, what they were capable of was reprehensible. Dangerous too, knowing what they did about you, but they were human and you immolated them without permission. You interfered. There will be a cost. I hope he is worth it."

"He is," Sherlock whispered into the space where Mycroft had been. So much more worthy than a Fallen.

A slight noise came from the hospital bed and Sherlock was by John's side, all thoughts of his brother dismissed from his mind.

One eye on the swollen face was attempting to open. A groan came out of John's mouth.

"Sherlock," he slurred. "What happened?"

"What do you remember?"

"Umm, not much. They wanted something…you."

"They were a cult, bent on the end of the world. Somehow they discovered what I am. Thought they could use me, my abilities. Tried to get to me, through you."

John's eye closed again and a heavy sigh blew out of his mouth. "You should leave. Danger."

"You are an idiot, John."

"Yeah," and he fell back asleep.

Sherlock lifted an unsteady hand and gently brushed back the fringe lying on the marred forehead. Then he sat down on the floor and leaned his head back against the side of the bed. He did not leave although with the thought of the peril that he might bring down upon John, it was tempting to do so.

oOo

It was hours before John surfaced once again. This time he was a bit more coherent and aware of his surroundings. Everything hurt, from his hair to his toes. He glanced around wondering if he had been left for good when his eyes swept the still form sitting hunched beside his bed, arms wrapped tight around impossibly long legs.

"It never would have occurred to me that angels drool."

With a start and a glare, Sherlock was awake. He stood and stretched his wings out, almost filling the small room. The air from them collapsing back ruffled John's hair.

Bright eyes, the mad swirl in them slowing, as he took in John's face, swollen and slightly unrecognizable, but grinning all the same.

"Hey."

"John, how are you feeling?"

"Like I was run over by a lorry. Have you been here the whole time?" It hurt to talk but he needed to know.

Sherlock didn't say anything. He raised a hand, to touch the bruised face, hesitated.

"May I?"

"Touch me? Yeah, all right."

Sherlock carefully placed his fingertips on the damaged skin. "You have a concussion, two cracked ribs, a broken hand and nose, seven stitches, various contusions and minor cuts but you will recover."

"Thanks."

"For what?"

"For saving me."

Sherlock looked down at the floor, embarrassed it seemed.

"John, I…"

"No. No, you did. Don't you dare accept any blame for those nutters. Cult you said? I think. Last time I woke up."

Sherlock nodded slowly, "But if not for me…"

"If not for you, I would be lost and alone." He reached out and grabbed Sherlock's hand, threading his own stubby fingers through the long graceful ones.

Sherlock looked at the hands, joined together. It seemed to stop whatever protests he had.

"I fooled myself, John. I thought, I thought I was just here to experience, to try things. I didn't expect," he swallowed, uncomfortable, a flush crept into his skin. Blushing thought John. He is blushing. "I thought I would, I mean to say…"

"You thought you would seduce me and leave?" A hurt that had nothing to do with his wounds filled the space inside his heart. Sherlock was too much for him, too big and perfect. He should have known better. 

"Yes, I had almost convinced myself that was true but, I realized, when I saw you there, lying on the floor, I knew I would do anything, kill anyone to save you, protect you. I think, I think I love you."

It was quiet, even the sound of the machines was muted. John knew if he didn't say what was welling up inside him, Sherlock would leave; misunderstanding what was between them, think that John hated him. He took as deep a breath as he was capable of.

"Maybe I have no right, maybe I shouldn't say this to you, Sherlock but even if this is just an illusion of bliss, if this isn't real, I might start saying things I shouldn't if you don't kiss me."

The look of confusion of Sherlock's face was beautiful and priceless. "I thought you'd want me to go."

"Oh Sherlock, no. I'm not good at this. I'm really not, but if you leave, if you go, I will become less. You've released me to be this, this person I am now." He squeezed his hand and tugged on it, pulled Sherlock toward him.

Sherlock leaned in and first placed a chaste kiss on John's forehead. He then closed his eyes and gently brushed the swollen mouth. John, sore as he was, tired and heavily medicated, could not respond as he would have liked but he did let his tongue come out and lightly lick at Sherlock's lips until they parted and he drew in John's tongue.

A low, slow groan built between them. There was nothing now to stop them. When John was able, when he could come home, Sherlock would take him to bed and slowly explore every inch of this remarkable being, make him see he was the most important thing in the universe.

They parted the kiss and Sherlock put his head down into the crook of John's neck. He breathed in the scent of him. Deep serenity filled him. Here at last was a peace he knew he'd never find anywhere else.


End file.
